The Last Stand of AJ Rimmer
by Dartz-IRL
Summary: Better smeg than dead?


The Last Stand of A.J. Rimmer.

---A Red Dwarf one shot.  
----Based on no particular series.  
-----Original BBC series by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor. _Watch it_

Rough as Chuck Norris brand sandpaper, because it was done a while back under the gun. Found it on my backup drive there recently.

I…I

Silently, the 3 mega-year old mining ship Red Dwarf, slips through the barren void of space. Deep inside the bowels of the vast gigatonne leviathan, through a myriad of corridors, crawl ways, passageways and portals were a set of crew quarters... two bunks, one of which spotlessly clean save for a neatly placed 3-million year old copy of Officer and Gentleman monthly, the other a bleeding garbage tip covered in a green type of mould that was well on it's way to gaining sentience, so long as the bunks owner stopped using it as a substitute for curry powder in his vindaloos.

The bunks owner, one Dave Lister... former pet owner and last surviving human in the universe... probably, was having one of his regular discussions with the ship's only functioning mechanoid... a fellow with an odd faceted head shaped something like a novelty condom, and nipples that could tune in 3-million year old radio broadcasts from Earth.

"Kryten," said Lister, "That's humanities special quality. That never say die attitude. When our back's are to the wall we come out fighting, we don't just curl up and allow ourselves to die..."

"Even Mister Rimmer sir?" questioned Kryten, "A man you once described as so cowardly, he jumps in fright when the toaster pops, a man so yellow children used to mistake him for the mascot for Lyles premium yellow custard,"

"Yeah, but..." tried Lister.

"A man so cowardly, he wouldn't even save his own mother's life from an Arcuturan mega-rabbit unless he hadn't somehow been sent back in time to a point before he was born. A man so self absorbed, he would kill each and every one of us for the sake of saving his Napoleonic figurine collection. Were those not your words sir?"

The smugly artificial tones of the mechanoid lingered in the air for a brief moment, along with the deathly smell of old socks and cheap spice.

"Yeah but Kryten, he's still human," said Lister, before considering just who he was talking about... "Sort of. He may be an irritating smeghead, with a rod up his bum that has a rod up its bum, but there's still that one little sliver of humanity there, that one little lump of courage inside that man of custard."

"I think not," answered Kryten, "I think this would be an appropriate time for laugh mode." said the droid. "Ha Ha Ha Ha.... Ha, There, that should suffice,"

Laughter like a lightswitch. Click on, click off.

"Wanna bet," challenged Lister, taking a long gulp from a can of Tennants so far out of date, the date wasn't even a sensible fraction of the current year. "I'll bet you that, with his back to the wall, Rimmer will show some spine... he has some courage. Maybe a small bit, but it's there, and when he's facing his last stand with death closing in all around him. When he's dangling over the volcano, we'll meet the real Rimmer,"

A pointy, curry-stained finger emphasised the point.

"I think it's time for laugh mode again,"

"No, I'm serious Kryten. What do you want to bet that Rimmer doesn't have a single spark of courage, that when we're facing the final curtain, he won't step forward and be a man?"

The mechanoid cogitated for a moment, cybernapses and ciruitrons processing and whirling through electrons.

"My programming forbids gambling," said the droid haughtily,

"Your programming forbids using your vacuum attachment to fornicate with a pretty vending machine, but you were doing that yesterday,"

"But that's different sir," defended Kryten, "She merely had a blockage in her dispensorial slit which I cleared," he explained correctly, properly.

"And this morning?" questioned Lister

Kryten stopped, frozen dead still.

"Oh..." he face dropped sullenly, "Well you really mustn't tell anyone sir... they can't know I violated my programming... not to do something as distasteful as that," he pleaded mechanically. "It's not something I want on my record, it's deviant sir...."

If mechanoids could cry, Lister swore Kryten was about to,

"Relax Kryten man," he eased, "It's no bother. We all have those urges from time to time.... it's why God gave us hands,"

The beer-reeking man held his own crusty hands up as proof. Kryten gave him a dubious look for a moment, as if Lister was a spot on a white wall that just wouldn't clean.

"Tell you what Kryten," continued Lister, "Just take the take the bet with me and we'll call it even,"

"Do I have to, Sir?" pleaded the droid.

"Yes, you do." confirmed Lister. "Now what do you want to bet? Uh..." he thought.. "say this months laundry?"

Kryten just looked at the smashed remains of a formerly intelligent toaster on the table in front of him.

"Alright," he whimpered. "If I win, I get to do the laundry, if you win, you can do it. I guess I can do without for a month,"

Lister thought for a moment, and remembered how disgusting his laundry was... after all, he was the one who wore it. He came up with what he thought was a win-situation.

"How about, if you win, you get to do the laundry for the month. And if I win, you get to do the laundry for a month," he offered his gloved hand to the droid to shake.

Kryten considered this for a moment. He considered this to be a win-win situation. Silly human. He accepted listers hand gingerly, noting the crunch the glove made in his grip.

"I accept your offer," he smirked, his face contorting wildly out of control as all attempts at hiding the untruth of the situation failed, leading too an almighty overrun screw that smashed the stack of his expressional sub-processors, and generally just did a fandango on core across the mechanoids brain.

It was a testament to Listers reconstruction skills... Kryten having been rebuilt the the third-level technician a while back... that there was no appreciable difference to the behaviour of the mechanoid after this. He was just as broken and smegged up as before.

"Yes!" smirked Lister, "Now, we just have to find the Cat,"

"I believe he went down to the lower decks, sir... something about catching a scent that reminded him of a female,"

"We'll never find him down there," said Lister, "Besides, how does he know what a female smells like, the only thing remotely female on this ship for the last three million years was that old Amelia Stratton lovedoll we disposed of after the mould imbued it with sentience... I think we left it somewhere on the lower decks."

Silence, as both man and machine had a disturbing thought.

"Anyway," he continued, "We have to plan this,"

I…I

Somewhere deeper in the bowels of the great mining ship, a well dressed felinoid male came across a crunchy piece of rubber. A little dusty, a little artificial, but it worked. The worst thing about it were the marks it left on the jacket, as the felinoid man tried to carry it away.

"Sequins stain easy lady" he warned, "This jacket is worth more than you ever were,"

Purple, shiny... plastic... like a cheap showband frontman. The Cat's style was all in his own head. The love-doll was on

"Artificial female giving off the scent of a real one, how did that happen anyway? Making me crawl through miles of dusty corridors for what? A pink skinned dust-bunny..."

For a brief moment, the Cat was aware of something watching him. He glanced over, into the eyes of the pink-skinned dust bunny. The bunny was staring back at him.

I…I

Rimmer jumped as the most God-awful scream imaginable seemed to resonate through the structure of the ship. Fear tensed a not in the holograms stomach. He thought for a moment, about how his gut didn't actually exist... but that didn't mean the feeling couldn't.

Well Arnie... confidence, like an officer. Face that bunkroom like a man.

Light from the quarters spread itself out across the floor. If Rimmer had've been able to smell, the scent that would've reached his nostrils would've made him sick. There were things that made him thank God he was a hologram... not being able to smell Listers boots was one.

He took a simulated deep breath, trying to exude an air of simulated military confidence in his simulated pristine uniform.... except for a few stuck pixcubes.

"Well Gentlemen," he announced his presence in the cabin, "I've just finished my inspection tour of the ships Safety Material Exoregression Garden of Healthy Exuberance And DeStressing,"

Some joyless smeghead had developed that acronym specifically to say 'smeghead's, but that made it no less official in the future officers mind. This was no time for humour, this was official.

Lister tittered, while Kryten fidgeted with a length of black hose attached to his crotch. None of the pair were looking at him... In fact, they were deliberately avoiding him.

"What is it?" he asked sourly... hands on hips, officer and nanny style.

"Nothing," answered Lister with a giggle. "Kryten just told a funny joke is all "

"Kryten, a funny joke? Rimmer blinked owlishly, "That droid is about as funny as a rained-out over 65's lawn-bowling tournament in winter,"

"Prove him wrong Kryten," challenged Lister, "Tell him that joke you told me the other day, the one about the ones,"

He still didn't get it.

"Alright sir, but I don't think you'll get it this time either," agreed the mechanoid, "However. A one is walking down the street one day, and meets another one coming the other way. "Hello there one", says one. "Hello there too", says the other one. Now why don't the three of us all go home four tea and biscuits?"

Kryten switched into laugh mode once more. Lister just forced it. Rimmer didn't swallow it for a second.

"See, it was flippin' hilarious it was," said Lister.

"Really?" one of Rimmers eyebrows rose.

"Jesus Rimmer, you've a sense of humour like the dead," Lister said, putting his feet up onto the table.

"I am dead," stated Rimmer, "And for the record, somebody around here has to be the serious one. Somebody has to keep this ship from falling apart around our ears and that someone is me,"

Conveniently ignoring the fact that he was a softlight hologram unable to anything more than inspect.

"And we're grateful Rimmer, we really are," lied Lister, "The problem is, there's still things you can do that we can't... like check out anomalous energy signatures on D-deck, inside the radiation field,"

"Inside the radiation field?" Rimmer asked.

No, he wasn't going to believe this.

"Yeah," Lister nodded, "Holly picked it up about ten minutes ago, before he left for his holidays in processor module B... for beach,"

"Kryten, is this true?"

"gweep," said Kryten.... or something to that effect. Lie mode off. Diversion mode on. "I have to go help a vending machine with a blockage in her dispensorial slit, " he blurted out, making a beeline for the door, handheld hose flapping like a loose sock as he half-ran, half scuttled.

He was out the door and home from before the glare had even hardened on Rimmers face.

"I swear it's true," said Lister,

"Like the time you placed your guitar on the fire when we were trapped on that ice world." Rimmers gaze hardened.

"No, that was different." Lister shook it off. "That was life and death. This is just an anomalous energy reading on D-deck. It probably is nothing," Lister decided to cover his ass... just in case... "But it has to be checked out, ship's safety and all that jazz,"

"Alright, I'll take a look," relented Rimmer with a roll of his eyes, "But if this is a wild goose chase, we're going to have words later, matey," he warned with an officer-like waggled of his fingers.

"Alright, I promise you it isn't, and when have I ever broken a promise to you, Rimmer,"

"There was that incident with the pot-noodle," recalled the hologram off the top of his simulated head, "And my prize chest. And the time you promised to look after my collection of literature, which quickly ended up being used as toilet paper when the dispensorator jammed. Which I would've understood is you hadn'tve tried to hand it back used afterwards. I 'm not some stupid goit Listey who came down in the last shower... I know you're planning something."

"I'm not," Stated Lister, wounded by the attack on his character. "I swear," Fingers crossed behind the back and all.

"Only because it's a matter of ship's safety. You haven't tricked me. I want to make that perfectly clear,"

"Clear as crystal," Lister reassured soothingly.

"Good," affirmed the failed officer. "Now wait here, I'll be back in an hour or so,"

Rimmer left the room in a haze of righteous intent and simulated self confidence. Of course, since he was only a simulated man, and he was simulating his self confidence to himself, that made it simulated simulated self confidence. A double-negative?

Lister smirked fiendishly, removing a blackish, boxish, speakerish thing out from under the table.

"We tricked him Kryten," he told the box. "I'll meet in you in the control room at sub-level K2"

A month off laundry duty either way. Time well spent.

I…I

D-deck was still a mess, abandoned beneath the dusty haze of lethal radiation for three-thousand millenia, weeping stains of rust being dragged down the steel bulkheads by centuries of condensation. Stalactites of blood-red iron oxide dangled from the ceiling above, being answered by stalagmites on the floor.

A few stray piles of pale white dust scattered haphazardly like spilled salt on the floor were all the marked the graves of the former ships company of Red Dwarf. Each pile had a name-tag attached to it.

One in particular twisted a knife through holo-Rimmers heart.

A.J. Rimmer it read.

With a fresh-ish mechanoids bootprint through it for good measure.

Kryten stood on my mortal remains, the dead man realised bitterly, tugging at the simulated tan lapels of his simulated uniform. No dignity for Arnold Judas, not even in death, a part of his mind teased.

And what was Kryten doing here? He wondered t himself.

Probably 'servicing the vending machines'. That mechanoid could do with a ruddy good servicing himself, Arnold mused darkly, with the blunt end of a rusty spanner.

I…I

In a control room not far away, a man watched Rimmers progress over the ship's surveillance systems with expectant glee.

"Are you sure the hologram systems can take this Kryten" Lister enquired, "We just want to scare him, not kill him,"

"It's only a projection," Kryten assured via radio. "We're controlling it, not the ships computer. It can settle in alone with Mister Rimmer's intelligence nicely. There's plenty of space left over."

It was time for laugh mode again.

I…I

Arnold Rimmer forged forward, scanning for the location of the power disruption with his simulated scanner. Cobwebs dangled spookily from the ceiling.... his thoughts turning to a hundred cheesy horror films he'd always been too afraid to watch.

They always moved forward, even when it was plainly obvious that they were nothing but a bleeding smeghead who was about to get eaten by some sort of ravenous rabbit with big, bloody teeth and coprophageous tendencies.

They never just turned back and went home, like smart people did.

They pushed forwardly blindly, eyes fixated on their scanners or their feet, not even looking up until they came to face with monster fluffy, having only enough time to cough out "Oh Smeg" before they were eaten whole. Then eaten again 12 hours later.

But this would never happen to him, he promised himself, focusing all his attention onto a bright point on his scanner. He was too smart, too attentive…. too much like officer material.

He...

That thought was interrupted as the lights fizzled and died.

Rimmer was bathed only in the blue afterglow of his scanner, casting an eerie malevolent light across his features.

"Smeg," he groaned.

A knot of panic twisted in his guts, whatever dinner Rimmer'd never had deciding to make it's way up the back of his throat.

Well, practice what you preach Arnold m'lad... he told himself as he heeled around. Probably a blown fuse causing the power fluctuation. Not worth checking. Just lie to Lister. And nobody will know he chickened out..

Yes, that's a good plan.

A sudden, deafening crash echoed through the corridor, a metallic ring resonating through the corroding steel structure.

Rimmers heart made a bit for freedom through his mouth.

Just the wind, his mind assuaged. Just the wind? The rest of him laughed at the idea. Wind on a spaceship? What next, hard-light holograms? A sudden miraculous reincarnation of the ship and crew by nanites?

Haha... it was laughable alright.

Mortal peril was about 50 yards behind him and closing.

He could hear it moving, its weighty footfalls resonating through the deck. What in the name of all that was good and holy was it, and how did it get onto the ship. Well, it didn't matter. Rimmer just ran, promising himself he would have a nice long chat with Lister alright... wonderful... cathartic chat. God how he wished he could touch that man, feel his neck beneath his crushing hands sometimes. Out of context that thought would be a bit embarrassing he knew, but it made sense to him right now goddammit and that's all that mattered.

Behind him, steel shrieked as it tore, rent apart by some terrific force.

"Oh Smeg," he muttered breathlessly.

Funny how they even simulated a hologram's fitness. Rimmer felt as if he was about to pass out. Light legs had never been so heavy. His head passed through a stalactite... that always made his ethereal skin crawl... but he didn't care, he just redoubled his panicked efforts in his charge towards the lift doorway.

Better smeg than dead, he thought. Better smeg than dead. Better smeg than dead.

Glowing an evil red in the gloom, the lift door waited for him, 20 yards ahead. If Rimmer had to guess, he would've placed whatever the hell was chasing him about half as far behind him, and slowly closing.

He skidded to a halt at the keypad, panting hard, desperately pushing the button marked Lift-H... the special hologram button.

"The service you have requested, is out of service," answered the lift, "Please try again later,"

The noises were looming behind him. Monstrous, grunting breathing, footsteps resonating through the deck as if someone where striking it hard with a sledgehammer with each footfalls,

"Oh God," he gulped, pressing back against the stubborn doorway.

He turned to face his attacker, but could see only a monstrous black void... perfect infinite darkness laid out in front of him.

"Dear lord," he whimpered, "If you can see your way to letting me out of this, maybe we can discuss some sort of religious..."

He was cut off by one final, cacophonic smash, his legs buckling and giving out beneath him. Rimmer would've thrown up if a hologram could've done so. He drove himself deep into the wall, pressing back as far as he could, burying his face in his hands in the hope that it would just go away and leave him pathetically crying on the floor.

Maybe it would be so disgusted by his whimpering it would just get tired and leave.

But no such luck...

He could hear its gravelled breathing... each gulp of air leaden with malice.

A small part of his body demanded he fight, but it was drowned out by the millions of synapses screaming to flee. Even though he couldn't anymore, they still wanted to. They wished he could just ooze under the doorway.

How silly was it? A hologram made of light that can't pass through walls.

How silly that a hologram be afraid of physical harm.

How silly that his final words were 'Gazpacho Soup'.

How silly the whole smegging lot was.

And now it was over.

Its mouth was open.

At least have the dignity to open your eyes and face it like a man.

He couldn't.

The last stand of Arnold Judas Rimmer, was more of a last crying sit.

"Now, Mister Lister," ordered a smug mechanical voice, one that sounded horribly like Krytens.

And Rimmers world was filled with white.

It took him only a few moments to realise that he was still alive.... sort of Slowly, he peered out from his hiding place, cracking his eyes gently, half expecting to be met by the stinking yellow teeth of the evil monster-flopsy.

Instead, he was greeted by a pair of beady, staring eyes, glistening like glass marbles. A smug, white-toothed grin, and a face that looked somewhat like the presenter of Scraphead Challenge if he'd shaved and wore a hat like the top of a pencil eraser.

"Gotcha sir!" exclaimed Kryten.

Sledgehammer in one hand, little black comm-radio in the other, and Lister's boombox strapped to his back with 'BBC Sound effects Volume IV-Horror' in the tape-deck.

"Oh God...sound effects"

Rimmer wasn't furious. He was past furious. He was past apoplectic. His mind just blew a fuse, and he fainted into darkness.

"Mister Lister sir," the mechanoid told the radio-box, "I believe that is in fact, one months worth of washing you owe me,"

It had been a good days work. And Rimmer would get over it, he always did.

I…I

Some years later, as Starbug came under attack by a future version of himself, Rimmer would think back on this prank and realise it as a learning experience. He would realised that indeed there was a time to fight, that indeed 'Better dead than smeg' had it's place.

Now however, he just wished for nothing more than to painfully murder Dave Lister... preferably using a method that involved BBC sound effects and hig voltage electrodes to his jubbly bits.

I…I

And that as they say, is that. And only that.

-Dartz


End file.
